


the gossamer years

by blanketed_in_stars



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Lie Low At Lupin's (more or less), M/M, Non-Graphic Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 02:21:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5850184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanketed_in_stars/pseuds/blanketed_in_stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beneath him, Sirius lies like a painting on the starched sheets, dark against the white and darker for the shadows between his bones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the gossamer years

**Author's Note:**

> "I did not like to be touched, but it was a strange dislike. I did not like to be touched because I craved it too much. I wanted to be held very tight so I would not break. Even now, when people lean down to touch me, or hug me, or put a hand on my shoulder, I hold my breath. I turn my face. I want to cry." —Marya Hornbacher

It’s not like before, not at all. How could it be? There are years and years between them, so much that it still feels like an ocean beyond hope of crossing, though this is the closest they’ve been in over a decade. They breathe the same air and they seem to have only one heart pounding in their shared skin, yet—yet—something’s there, and Remus doesn’t know if it’s the distance or the time or his own muddled thoughts.

Beneath him, Sirius lies like a painting on the starched sheets, dark against the white and darker for the shadows between his bones. Each rib is clearly defined and Remus counts them, tracing his fingers over the shapes like he’s climbing a ladder with his hands, feeling the swell of Sirius’s lungs as he gasps a surprised breath. In that one sharp noise, Remus hears the long span of time since anyone touched him, there or anywhere. He wants to cover Sirius with his own body, run his hands over every inch of him and feel the blood pulse beneath his palms, and he doesn’t know if it would be to remind Sirius or himself that they’re alive.

But he can’t bring himself to do that, can only reach out and brush Sirius’s hair out onto the pillow. Sirius catches his hand and kisses his fingers, his palm, the spidering of blue veins inside his wrist. His lips are softer than the rest of him, softer than they have any right to be, and when he looks up at Remus his face is flayed open and naked with need.

Remus bends down and kisses him as he fits their bodies together, swallowing the noise that Sirius makes and feeling the new heat of both of them, different but so familiar, despite the sharp bones at every angle. He feels the distance between them still, a thread-thin veil separating them barely but completely, and wishes it gone. Remus wonders if Sirius can feel it too, or if it’s of his own making. He presses his lips to Sirius’s throat, to the vibration and the bob as he swallows—slips his hands down and feels Sirius trembling, is struck with his fragility—a baby bird, light and hollow.

As the heat builds between them, Remus tries to still the shaking but finds it difficult, his thoughts fragmenting with every movement of his hips, every noiseless word that sighs on Sirius’s breath. He understands nothing but the sense of it, which is _closer,_ which is _please,_ which is _love._ It’s also pain, clear in the tight grip of desperate fingers over his shoulders, but what kind of pain, Remus isn’t sure—and still Sirius trembles, his whole frame quivering. When he cries out and arches against Remus with a drum beating between their chests, he shudders, and when he falls back, his fingers and body and bones shake like a dry leaf in the wind.

Remus collapses against him and, with his head for a moment on Sirius’s buttressing ribs, feels a strange rhythm in the rise and fall. He rolls to one side and looks up, and Sirius is crying—silently, softly, but in a way that speaks of loneliness, tears spilling over his wasted cheeks. He reaches for Remus without looking. They wind together, Remus drawing him close and Sirius pressing his face to the space between shoulder and neck, clinging, whispering something without words that Remus can’t begin to decipher.

He finds that he doesn’t need to—he presses his lips to Sirius’s hair and strokes the sweet silk skin of his back, over the ridge of his spine and the keen edges of his shoulder blades. This body is a new one. Is it any wonder that there are tears, when it’s never felt anything like this before? Remus holds Sirius tightly and feels the truth of him there. He whispers something back, equally meaningless, just to remind him that they’re alive despite the years, which don’t fall away, but wrap them closer together like another pair of arms, stronger than his own.


End file.
